


evoke the stars above

by feralphoenix



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Child Abuse, Consent Issues, Dehumanization, Dissociation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mind Control, Player as Antagonist, Spoilers - No Mercy Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 11:31:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5246714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Bloody fingers stretch toward the last book, a photo album. Then shiver, shiver, and withdraw.</i>
</p><p>It's the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	evoke the stars above

**Author's Note:**

> _(whatever walked there, walked alone_ – Have you ever heard the sound of the world bleeding?)
> 
> story also contains some glitched text effects, so heads up!

Quiet fills the house, disturbed only by a flower’s (a child’s) voice and the sound of footsteps as the shambling husk drags itself from room to room. One would not think, at first, that the puppet even bothers to listen to the story it is being told, but—its head turns, just a little, towards the speaker.

Its hands, powerful and decisive when slashing monsters into blood and dust, tremble while searching through a bookcase. Items are yanked loose, fall out, clatter onto the floor. The creature shaped like a human flinches at the noise. Nothing useful. Nothing useful. But it lowers itself onto its haunches, awkward, and leaves ashy handprints on the books of tea as it returns them to the shelves.

Bloody fingers stretch toward the last book, a photo album. Then shiver, shiver, and withdraw.

The first thing retrieved from the kitchen is the key, jammed onto the phone’s keyring with unsteady hands. But the thing that hides in a human’s guise lingers, afterward. It opens the drawers, slams them closed (nearly catching fingertips—no knives). It makes a noise, a small whine of discontent, at the contents of the fridge. (No sweets, here, and _why,_ there was chocolate in _her_ refrigerator—) There is nothing remarkable about the cleanliness of the stovetop. It’s always been like that.

There are crumpled recipes in the wastebasket. The puppet’s tired lidded eyes skim over this. It lurches back into the living room, breathing gone pained as if from a stitch in its side.

It comes to a stop before the fireplace. Its legs fold. The dusty hands stretch out, but there is nothing there to burn them.

_(A memory:_

_“C_ _͂_ _̉_ _̫͓̫̬̝͖̗͌̎ͦ͛̓͜_ _h_ _̶͈̗͚̾͐̒ͭ͑ͥ_ _a_ _̓͊_ _́_ _ͤͭͨͥ_ _̈_ _҉̜̝͈̗̞̪͢͢_ _r_ _͌͊͐̀҉̻̲̫͈̘͚̩̩́_ _a_ _̡̤̠͙̭͇̇ͧͮ͂̽̚͝,_ _you must not,” comes her voice. Large, warm, gentle hands that pull you back from the fire. “Oh, dear. I had thought that removing anything sharp would have been enough… No, no, my child, do not cry. It will be all right. There is nothing wrong with you. But I think I will make this safe to touch, just in case.”)_

The creature pushes itself away as if bitten, breath jagged. It crawls zombie-like back until it stands again upon two legs.

In the hallway, the flower returns. The puppet quietens, closing its eyes, listening to the familiar yet unfamiliar voice in the blackness. The words of love spoken by the flower are terrible to hear, but perhaps there is some comfort for the husk in them nonetheless.

The last key goes beside its sister on the chain. But instead of returning to its task, the beast with a human’s skin stumbles into the furthest bedroom.

Old things are here. Familiar things. One glance at the diary is enough to satisfy its curiosity. He always did write the same thing.

It skips past the giant bed, the clumsy macaroni flower on the wall. It pulls at the armoire door, then closes it as if having seen something distasteful.

The chest of drawers, it rifles through, starting from the bottom. It paws at button-up shirts, disinterested. Then, in the top drawer, its dirty fingers stop on a sweater.

_(A memory:_

_“Do not be so ashamed, C_ _̜͍͙̫̼̩̠ͦͅ_ _h̉_ _̍̽̅̚_ _̀_ _̴̢̙̲͝ͅ_ _a_ _ͨ̍_ _̋̌_ _̼̔͂͟_ _̣r_ _̥̺̫̱ͮͤ͊̎͆͢͠ͅ_ _a_ _̷͋͋ͥͤ҉̶̺͔_ _—it is warm and lovely, and I will always cherish it.” He always gets down on his knees to speak to you, and you are glad for this, because it terrifies you to have to look up and up and up at him. He’s gentle. So much so that it’s wasted on you. But he sweeps you up to sit in the crook of his arm like he doesn’t know, and you lean into him. If you could ever really trust an adult, it would be him.)_

Blood and dust seep into the pink yarn. The demon with a human mask retracts its hands, retreats unsteadily from the room and ducks into the next unlocked one.

Everything here is bladed. The compulsion drags it to the leftmost box, and it drops the empty gun from its pocket in favor of the real knife inside. It strokes the side of the rusty blade, the hilt, tests the cutting edge. Still sharp. Good.

But then it raises its head.

It stands, gazes apathetically at the bed on the right-hand side of the room, at the old toy chest with a too-thick coating of dust. The bitten mouth contorts, for a moment, but then there is a terrible pressure on its shoulders and spine, and it looks away. Still, disobedient, it mouths the words as its irreverent feet track death along the patterned rug. _His. Mine. His. Mine. Ours._

A drawing of a flower. _(Stretched out on the floor, careful with the precious colored pencils you both had to share.)_

A closet full of striped shirts. _(You only had what you were wearing, but you and Asriel were the same size, and it made him happy to see you in the same colors. The first one you tried on smelled like cedar, like fabric softener, like his sweet fur. It was warm.)_

The husk pries open the other box. Its hands pause. Begin to tremble.

Hands are scrubbed futilely on pants. Then on the rug, until the pale palms are pink and raw. Fingers, trembling, reach for the treasure, lift it, cradle it. Fumble with the catch, fasten it around its neck, tuck the little red-and-gold heart underneath its filthy shirt.

And it sits there for minutes on end, both hands cupped over the lump the locket makes there. Tears stream through the grime on its cheeks. Its mouth is pulled tight, a smile or a grimace, sobs of joy or anguish wracking its frame.

The pressure weighs down on it again. Its lips pull back off its teeth in a snarl. It writhes where it sits, kicking the box askew. It crawls across the floor, burying its face in the sheets of the left-hand bed.

It is comfortable here. So comfortable that it does not want to get up ever again. _(The only comfort left as your body rots from the inside out, Ã_ _̸̷̟̘̟͎͙̭͎̪̠͊͌̓_ _s_ _̵̻̟̘̘̈́͒̍̇ͮ̎ͮ_ _r_ _͑_ _̃_ _̐̚_ _̀_ _ͩ̐͐҉̜̟͟͟_ _ỉ_ _̨̩̯̺̬̭̲͎ͬͯ̈́̓̽ͪ͐ͅ_ _e_ _̡͈̙͇̹ͧ͂͂͆̓̾ͨ̿́_ _l_ _̭̘͙̮̫̏͐ͣ̐͢͟ͅ_ _kneeling beside you with his soft padded hands wrapped around your wasted one, you longing for death but also just appreciating the tender contact—)_

But the compulsion is too powerful to resist for long. Clutching at itself, trembling, shaking its head and hissing, the husk jerks to its feet.

There is a job for it to finish.

 

 

 _S-stop making that creepy face!_ the flower shouts at it, voice shrill. He is cowering, quivering. _This isn’t funny! You’ve got a sick sense of humor!_

The thing wearing a child’s skin tilts its head back. The expression on its face is not the terrible old rictus grin. Its eyes are too dead. It weeps now, constantly, fat tears rolling down its death-stained face. But its bruised, chewed lips are parted slightly, corners upraised faintly, as if in mimicry of that ancient memory.

_(“It’s not funny,” you snap, hugging yourself, backing away. His smile slides some, his eyes narrowing in confusion. “You’ve got a sick sense of humor, Asriel.”_

_“Well, I thought it was a good joke,” he says, as if bewildered. “I didn’t think it’d upset you like this. Golly. I’m sorry, C̉_ _͆ͭͨͭ͛_ _́_ _ͪ҉͔̫̯̺̗_ _h_ _ͤ̄_ _̌_ _͂_ _̌_ _̵̖̯͈̹̭̅͘_ _a_ _̐_ _̉_ _̜͈̺̩̤̞ͯ̾͜_ _r_ _̴̥̪̲ͤ͂ͪ͐̊ͨ͛_ _a_ _̥̰̯̅̈́̒ͯ̔̿ͫ̓͟_ _̣_ _̯͕͖̖͔_ _.”_

_You wipe your nose on the back of your hand, and pointedly avoid his gaze. He shuffles his paws a little in the grass._

_“I won’t talk about it again, promise,” he tells you. You lift your head and stare at him sidelong, not in the mood to be mollified. “Really. I’m sorry.”_

_You shrug. But when he edges up to your side, you stay still, and you allow him to lean on you, taking a bitter comfort from his warmth.)_

It blinks.

The flower burrows between the bricks and is gone from sight.

 

 

The fight in the corridor goes on and on.

Stabbing pain. Crushing pain. Pain of evisceration. Pain of bones breaking. Pain of suffocation. Pain.

It should no longer feel pain, behind its protective shield of LOVE. But it staggers and breaks again and again and again. The tries don’t even blur together the way they have before.

The puppeteer does not even allow it the time to curl up by the save point and throw up between one attempt and the next.

There should be some sense of—accomplishment—when it bathes in blood, when its LOVE maxes out. But there is none. Just tired nausea.

 

 

Progress down the final hallway is slow.

Its inventory is empty. The compulsion urges it forward, not permitting a return to the save point to heal, so it drags its broken ankle, the crushed arm useless at its side. The weapon arm is fine, knife still grasped between its white-knuckled fingers.

One shambling step after the other.

But.

At the gate—at the final doorway, it stops, head bent low, gaze on the toes of its shoes.

No.

No.

No.

Not _its._ Their.

They are not an it, _they are not an it they are NOT AN IT THEY ARE NOT AN IT THEY ARE NOT THEY ARE NOT THEY ARE NOT_

Command—marionette strings, distant fingers on a keyboard, crushes them under an unbearable weight. Step forward. Do it. Move. FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED, FINISH THE JOB, OBEY, OBEY, LIKE THE PUPPET YOU ARE—

Their throat works.

They spit out blood.

No, they think.

FINISH THE JOB

No, you think. Your hand shakes, but you grip your knife against the tremors in your battered borrowed body.

FINISH THE JOB

I will not.

FINISH THE JOB

I will not.

FINISH THE JOB

against pain, i raise my head and grin wide

* I AM NOT   YOUR PLAYTHING

* I AM    NOT  YOUR TOY

* I AM CHARA

* AND YOU ARE NOT IN CONTROL

 

            and i drive

 

                        the knife

 

                                    home

* * *

 

_The surface they wake on is soft._

_They stroke their bruised arms through the tender flowers, breathe in and out and bask in the filtered sunlight. Then they roll over, turning their face toward the ceiling._

_And you—you curl up in a ball on their chest, your arms and legs passing through their body in places, and you sob, and sob, and sob._

_Frisk can’t touch you, but they wrap their arms around their own chest, running gentle fingers over their upper arms and their heart. It’s not much, but you can still feel it, this facsimile of being stroked._

_“I’m sorry,” you manage to make out._

_“It’s okay,” they say. Their voice is tiny, hardly above a whisper._

_“It’s not,” you reply, and turn your face against their chest. You wish you could just bury yourself into them for real. “I almost didn’t shake Them off in time. I don’t know if I can do it again.”_

_“But you still reset in time,” Frisk tells you. Soft. Soothing. You don’t deserve it, you don’t deserve them any more than you deserved Asriel and Asgore and Toriel, but you cleave to them all the same. “You did it. It’s still you, Chara. Despite everything.”_

_You huddle into them, and you’ll regret admitting this later, but— “I’m scared,” you say, and sniffle. “Why won’t they just leave us alone. What if they just—keep trying, until—”_

_“We’ll just have to keep stopping them,” Frisk reassures you. They’re quiet for a while. “It hurt, didn’t it? I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”_

_“It’s—okay,” you say. “’M sorry.”_

_Frisk rolls onto their side and lifts one hand up, patting their hair in slow strokes. You shudder and relax into the vicarious sensation._

_“I love you,” they say. “You’re not a puppet. You’re not a thing. You’re a person, and you’re my friend.”_

_“I—” You feel yourself blush. A lot. “Uh, yeah. Thanks, I… you too. You big sap.”_

_They giggle, a slice of sunshine in your gloomy heart. You start to feel like things are, maybe, some kind of okay._

_Frisk stands up, brushing at their shorts, tentative. You let yourself melt into them, a quiet passenger again. For now._

_“C’mon,” they think to you, and they smile, full of hope and determination. “Let’s try again.”_


End file.
